


My Soul Too Much Charged (with Blood of Thine)

by Meadow Lion (Meadow_Lion)



Category: The Gates
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Pre-Slash, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meadow_Lion/pseuds/Meadow%20Lion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Don't feel you're missing something in regards to the mysterious "attack" mentioned within, as it isn't a specific canon reference and has little significance in this piece.</p>
    </blockquote>





	My Soul Too Much Charged (with Blood of Thine)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oxoniensis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/gifts).



> Don't feel you're missing something in regards to the mysterious "attack" mentioned within, as it isn't a specific canon reference and has little significance in this piece.

A breeze tousles Nick's hair and rustles overlying leaves above, dappling his face in sun and shade. His uniform collar angles teasingly from his neck. Dylan notes all this without shifting his gaze from the woods around them.

They're seeking clues to an attack on an elderly Gates human male. Dylan focuses outwardly on trees, brush, wind, earth. But every sense primarily, heedlessly attunes to Nick.

"Notice anything yet?" Nick's quiet, anticipatory tone matches their surroundings.

"Nothing," Dylan replies, _except you -- your skin, cells as dead-yet-not as I am, not muting your blood nearly enough._

Nick's blood sings to Dylan more loudly and sweetly than any overcheerful birds could, its scent palpable; the ridges of Dylan's fangs stretch his lips.

Dylan halts, and feels the air thicken between them as Nick pauses, too. The silence is full, like a held breath Dylan can't take. Within the dark space of Nick's blink, Dylan's tongue flicks that teased stripe of neck, tasting a hint of the heat pulsing beneath Nick's skin, before Dylan reestablishes distance.

"What the --?" Nick slaps his neck, where his fingers meet Dylan's.

Dylan lowers their hands, revealing a mosquito crushed in his palm. His lip curls. "Nasty little bloodsuckers."

"Right." Nick slides his hand free. His eyes hold a challenge, but it seems less _Try that again, and I'll stake you_ than simply . . . _Try that again._

Dylan studies Nick, the sharp breaths he's trying to slow, the punch of his heart spreading rich warmth from head to extremities. Nick is an altarless offering, and Dylan is godless -- not to mention hard and tempted. But there's no blood on Dylan's hands, only insect ichor.

Flicking away the corpse, Dylan resumes his former path. "Onward?"

Nick catches him up after a beat. Quiet again, he says, "Lay on, MacDylan."

\- end - 

**Author's Note:**

> The title and final line (aside from the insertion of Dylan's name, obviously) are from _Macbeth_. The invocation of that final line's varied interpretations is intentional.


End file.
